Much more than just ‘Mexican Halloween’
Sacred, profound annual celebration remembers lost loved ones
For as long as human beings have been on the planet, aware of their own mortality, we've tried to make sense of death. For many Mexicans, our relationship to death is joyfully subversive. Octavio Paz said it best: “The Mexican … is familiar with death. … (He) jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it. It is one of his favorite toys and his most steadfast love.” Death is not hidden from Mexicans' awareness; it is something that walks among us. Perhaps that's why, for one weekend a year, we celebrate life in commemoration of the dead. At gatherings everywhere, the mariachi music swells; a Mexican promenades across the floor and takes La Catrina, a lavishly dressed skeleton, by the hand, dancing as if there is no tomorrow — thus begins the Día de Muertos, Day of the Dead, festivities.
It's easy, given all the skeletons and the fact that it begins on the night of Oct. 31, to think of the celebration as a kind of “Mexican Halloween.” But it's not that at all. The tradition is infused with both Indigenous and Christian beliefs, icons and symbols, and is deeply rooted in the culture of the descendants of the proud Mexica — later known as Aztec — people. As a devout practicing Catholic, I want people to remember this tradition, not in a commercialized form, but with a sense of holiness.
I've always felt the connection between the Day of the Dead festivities and the two closely related holy days on the Church calendar: All Saints Day on Nov. 1 and All Soul's Day on Nov. 2. These days, too, invite believers to celebrate the saints, build connections and pray for their loved ones who have preceded them in death.
Día de Muertos consists of three components. What happens in the streets, what happens in the cemeteries and what happens in the home. In the street, you have the festivals, the dancing; people dress up as calacas (skulls) and Catrinas (elegantly-dressed female skeletons). In the cemeteries, people whitewash the tomb and bring flowers; some people spend the night there to welcome the spirits. In the home is the
most personal of the celebrations — the ofrendas (offerings): altars created in honor of those who have passed.
This year, as we have done for 21 years, we're hosting an exhibit of these loving altars at the Houston-based nonprofit Multicultural Education through the Arts and Counseling — MECA — at the old Dow schoolhouse, built in 1912 in Sixth Ward. Members of the community are invited to install these “works of the heart” throughout the halls of the old school. The halls are transformed into a festival of the senses, with colorful papel picado (cut-out banners) swaying in the breeze, the aroma of the cempasúchil (Mexican marigold) and the copal incense infusing the air.
This exhibit has taken on more importance during the pandemic. Many images have attempted to portray the devastating impact the isolation created by the necessary quarantine had on so many communities. One indelible image is that of an elderly person standing at a window with a much younger person standing on the other side — their hands held up to the window pane, touching and yet, not touching.
For me, that image of separated presence vividly captures the belief behind this Mexican tradition. There are two worlds — the world of the living and the world of the dead — separated by a pane. From sunset on Oct. 31 until sunset on Nov. 2, this pane is at its thinnest, allowing the souls of the departed to cross back over, sit, and visit for a while.
Colorful handmade paper flowers form to create an arch, a gateway, through which the spirits can pass. Awaiting the spirits are the ofrendas that serve both as a memorial and as an invitation: “Ven a mí,” come to me. The altars can be one simple table or several levels high. The importance is not the structure, but the oh-so-carefully placed objetos de amor (objects of love) that remind the living of the loved ones being honored.
Carefully nestled on each ofrenda are pictures of the loved ones so profoundly missed. There are personal items and favorite foods that tell the story of the loved one. As the curator of the ofrenda exhibition, I am truly humbled as each exhibitor shares with me intimate memories of their loved ones — their abuelitos, tíos, hijos, papás — who are no longer physically with us. My own parents have been gone for almost 30 years. But when I put up their altar, I still feel the emotion; I feel their presence. For a lot of people, it's the same.
These memories, so kindly shared with the public, bring to life the spirits of the departed and, yes, they are with us once again. The halls of the old school are converted to holy ground, taking on a kind of sacredness. If you listen carefully, you might even hear the deep, alluring sound of the conch, blown by a proud Mexica shaman.